Why He Doesn't
by BrandSpankingNew
Summary: A furious Hotch spanks Morgan and Morgan...does nothing. Says nothing. He just lets it happen. Just like when he was a kid; just like with Carl Buford. Why did he stay silent? Can he let go? Spoilers:seasons 6/7. Warnings inside.
1. Chapter 1

PLEASE READ THIS PART! Okay, so regular readers knows that I write spanking fiction. Now, obviously, we don't live in a world where our bosses can just spank us (which is a good thing, at least in my opinion) but in fanfiction, we see that kind of thing all the time. It works better with certain shows than others, but it pops up everywhere. I've written a spanking fic or two in the NCIS universe, so I'm as guilty as anyone. But recently, I read a handful of different fictions where Hotch spanks Morgan. I liked one or two of them quite a bit. And without fail, every last one, from the best-written to the flat-out-awful, sets off my bullshit alert.

Maybe it is just because Morgan is such an alpha male, or perhaps because they are relatively close in age, but the way I see it, Morgan would report Hotch and get him fired for treating him that way. Reid, especially a young Reid, might not—but Morgan? There is no way he wouldn't. There are two people I can see getting away with spanking Derek Morgan—his mama, and Penelope Garcia. (And only because if Morgan finally spanked Garcia, she would most certainly exact her revenge at some point...and thoroughly enjoy every minute, I'm sure!). But then I put on my profiler hat and began to reconsider. So let's just say it happened—Hotch spanked Morgan. And Morgan didn't report it. Why not?

Welcome to a slightly AU time line which fits better into my story: the only thing I could possibly imagine Hotch spanking Morgan for occurs pre-series (as shown in Tabula Rasa) but we'll just pretend all the events of Tabula Rasa occurred at the same time, sometime in season seven. That is where this story begins.

**Warning**: this story is all kinds of messed up. There are spoilers for Tabula Rasa and Profiler, Profiled, as well as season 7 spoilers. Story contains swearing, one homophobic word, spanking, and non-graphic discussions of sexual abuse of a teenager. If any of these things will freak you out or compel you to send flames, please go find another story; I'm already insecure about this one. No beta, so please PM me with any errors so I can fix them.

)—oo00OO00oo—(

Nature soaks every evil with either fear or shame. -Tertullian

Derek Morgan kicked off his clothes and left them in a pile on the bathroom floor. He stepped into the shower, which was pouring down as hot as it would go. He winced, drawing air through his teeth as his body accustomed itself to the punishing flow of water. His hands skimmed over his scalp and down to the base of his neck. He sighed and lightly massaged the tight muscles there before leaning his head against the shower wall.

This night couldn't be real. He would wake up any minute, and wonder what kind of mess in his unconscious had created this weird, terrible dream. But while Morgan was good at shoving things aside until he had time to deal with them, he did have time tonight. And this weirdness refused to be shoved away any longer.

It had been quick. Morgan's analytical mind pointed out that Hotch hadn't planned it out either—Morgan had scared him. He could have died. But even so, Hotch's actions had been...well, he was still in shock.

Aaron Hotchner—his boss, the team leader, his friend—had _swatted _him. Repeatedly. On the ass. Like he was a child. Even in the privacy of his own shower, he felt his face flame anew, as it had over and over on his drive home.

He sighed and flipped the cap on the shampoo bottle, squeezing a tiny dot of it into his palm and scrubbing lightly at his shorn scalp. Was the fact that Hotch had smacked him really such a big deal? After all, he could have died, if he'd missed his mark. Compared to that, what Hotch had done—his mind rebelled against labeling it—was nothing and he knew it. But his tense neck and shoulders were having trouble believing his brain.

They'd been going for an arrest. The unsub had ran for it. Morgan had thought the edge of the roof would be the end of it—the guy had nowhere to go. But the unsub had made a flying leap. It had taken Morgan less than a second to decide to go after him. He'd hastily, clumsily shoved his gun into its holster and backed up to have enough space to run. He'd heard Hotch yell his name, but didn't slow in the least. The rest was history.

After it was over, he saw Hotch's face. Hotch did serious well. And if you knew the man, his anger was just as easy to read. And Hotch was seriously angry. Furious, in fact; his usual stone face was savage. "You move one muscle, and I'll fire your ass," Hotch said in a low, stern voice across the gap in the buildings. "Understand me?"

"Yes, sir," Morgan had replied seriously. Usually they were more informal. But usually Hotch didn't swear either, so this situation was not usual. He'd watched across the roof as Hotch returned to the fire escape and descended the ladder, his angry visage disappearing from view.

True to his word, Morgan had stayed put, crouched on his haunches on the cold tar of the roof. The wait seemed to last forever, as Morgan checked his watch repeatedly. The adrenalin had faded fast, and he'd felt like a used dish rag, wrung out and exhausted. In the time it took for them to end up on the same roof, Morgan ran through half a dozen scenarios. He was going to be fired. Or demoted. Reassigned as a probationary agent. It was too easy for Morgan to imagine.

Morgan rinsed off his head and grabbed a bar of soap, lathering it in his hands and scrubbing at his armpits, then working his way across his chest and back. He'd felt almost sick, crouching on the roof with his imagination running wild.

But he hadn't imagined what had actually happened. Hotch had burst through the door, which was at Morgan's back. He made his way into Morgan's view. "Get up," he'd commanded. Morgan had pushed himself to his feet and dusted off his hands. He'd barely made it vertical when Hotch's strong hand grabbed his arm in a bruising grip. If Hotch had been an unsub, Morgan would have thrown him off or even decked him, but because it was Hotch—his boss, his _friend_—he'd stood still.

Morgan bent forward to wash his calves and feet, letting the hot water cascade over his skin. At the most, when Hotch's hand had closed on his bicep, he'd thought the man would give him a hard shake and ask him what the hell he'd been thinking, like Morgan might have done if Reid had pulled something like that. Once the adrenaline had faded, Morgan had been well aware of how stupid his actions were. It only made Hotch's seem more terrible in comparison. Because Morgan had know that he'd screwed up. It hadn't been necessary.

He put the wet bar of soap on the ledge of the tub and rinsed off the residue. With a loud sigh, he turned off the faucets and slid back the shower curtain, The warm, humid air that had been trapped with him behind the curtain escaped into the relative chill of the bathroom, and Derek shivered. He pulled a towel from the rack and wrapped it around his hips. He avoided the fogged mirror as he left the bathroom.

In his bedroom, he dried off quickly and pulled on a pair of boxers and a navy blue tee-shirt from his days in the police academy. After a moment, he added a rarely used pair of sleep pants printed with boxes of Sugar-Daddies candy (a Christmas gift from Garcia) and a red hooded sweatshirt he wore on his daily runs. He usually slept in his boxers, or nothing at all, but not tonight. He still felt cold, in a way that had nothing to do with the temperature of his house. Suddenly he wasn't feeling like sleeping, so he padded out to the living room and plopped down on the couch. "Clooney!" he called softly.

He heard Clooney's nails on the floor before he saw him, and vowed to clip them tomorrow. The big black mutt, a mix of Lab and something else, sat between his feet and rested his head on Morgan's thigh. Derek scratched him behind the ears, then smoothed down the fur he'd ruffled. Clooney's big brown eyes met Derek's own. Morgan looked away.

He'd been shocked when Hotch's open hand had landed on his butt hard enough to rock him forward. The loud clap had frozen him in place, and he couldn't move to defend himself as he was mentally thrown back more than twenty-five years. Suddenly, he was a young teen again, cowering from the absolute power of a grown-up over a kid. He'd stood like a statue of granite as Hotch continued to whack his ass. Two, three, four, five, six...he counted automatically. A dozen brutally hard smacks fell, and Derek felt absolutely nothing.

And then, as abruptly as it had started, it stopped. Slowly, Derek had become aware of Hotch's slightly labored breathing, of the fierce sting blooming over his ass, and that Hotch had released his arm. Neither man said a word.

Hotch was the one who had finally broken the tableau. "We'd better get down there," he'd said. It sounded like a command. Morgan gave one nod, feeling as though he had a concussion despite the fact that he hadn't hit his head. Everything was foggy, and nothing made sense.

He'd followed Hotch as if he were in a dream, automatically working through who had custody of their unsub—most likely a moot point, as it wasn't likely the man would survive the night. After Hotch had set the CSU to bagging, tagging, and photographing, they had left that paperwork with the local LEOs. With an inclination of his head, Hotch silently ordered him into their SUV as he signed off on the chain of custody for the evidence. He had climbed into the passenger side and swallowed convulsively when his butt hit the seat; it didn't really hurt, exactly, but it wasn't comfortable either. It felt like, well...like he'd been spanked. Oh, God. Hotch had spanked him.

Hotch had _spanked_ him. Like he was a kid. Right there, on that roof.

The ride back to Quantico was completely silent save for the staticky chatter of the radio. As Hotch pulled into a parking spot, he muttered, "Go home, Morgan. Paperwork can wait 'til tomorrow." Morgan had eagerly complied, suddenly wanting more than anything to be far away from his boss. He mumbled something that might have been a goodbye and left, not even going back to the bullpen to grab his jacket. It was, after all, a warm night.

Derek shivered. Clooney pressed his nose into his master's hand and whined. "I'm okay, boy," he muttered, trying to reassure his dog. Those imploring brown eyes were like a dagger to the heart.

But he wasn't okay, not really. Derek curled into the corner of the couch and patted the couch to invite Clooney up. The mutt clambered up, curling into his master's side. Derek dug his fingers into the thick black fur.

He had frozen. Derek Morgan did not freeze. He was a man of action, kicking down doors and tackling unsubs whenever the need arose. Not once in his professional life had he ever frozen. He didn't freeze in his personal life either; hadn't for years. Not since he was a teenager. Not since...not since he'd gotten away from Carl Buford. But he'd frozen on that rooftop, and suddenly, he'd been thirteen years old, small and defenseless again.

And even now, hours later, he felt that way. Even though he was wrapped up head to foot, with his fiercely loyal mutt standing guard. Even though he was in his own home, behind locked doors. He felt unbearably vulnerable. Hotch's actions had made him _remember._

Mama had worried about him since Daddy died. He loved his mother more than anything, and he didn't want to make her worry...it was just that trouble seemed to follow him. He wasn't really a bad kid, though. The arrests for petty theft and vandalism had been meant to put the fear of God into him. Mama had begged him to get involved with the youth center and stay out of trouble. "Baby, you can make something of yourself," she had said. "But you have to work at it. It's not going to come to you all wrapped up in paper and ribbons."

So, to pacify his mom, he'd gotten involved with the youth center. He liked having guys to play football with after school and on the weekends. The occasional pizza or soda bought for him and his friends by Carl was awesome, because Mama almost never had enough money to buy junk food. They did community service projects: painting murals over graffiti and helping old people mow their grass or weed their gardens. And for a kid who had lost his dad right before hitting puberty, Carl seemed to be a lifeline so that he didn't have to ask his Mama any embarrassing questions.

They'd been painting old Mrs. Mankowski's fence when Derek got his first erection. He had been thinking of Lisa Martinez, who was in his gym class and wore shorts that left little to the imagination, when suddenly, he had a major problem. He and his friends had talked about _it_, and joked about _it_, but Derek hadn't really understood what _it_ was or what_ it _meant, except in the vaguest of ways. He was a little scared and horribly embarrassed, and didn't know what to do, so he stood stock-still, waiting and praying that it would go away.

Carl had come up behind him. "You okay, Derek?" he asked, his face concerned.

Derek turned his face towards his mentor's. "Uh..." he mumbled. His cheeks were flaming, and his skin wasn't so dark as to obscure the fact.

Carl lowered his voice a little. "What's wrong?" he asked.

Derek didn't even know what to say, but he could feel that his face had twisted into an expression that would make denying impossible. "I dunno," he muttered.

"Are you sick or something?" Carl asked, putting his hand on Derek's back. "You were okay earlier."

"I, uh...it's just..." Derek took a step back and gestured in the general direction of his junk with the paintbrush. Carl's eyes followed his gesture.

"Ah. I see," Carl said, his eyes running over the little bulge. He leaned a little closer to Derek. "That's perfectly normal," he said very quietly. His breath tickled the sensitive hairs inside the boy's ear. "We probably should talk about it, but not out here in the middle of the street."

"Is it gonna go away?" Derek asked nervously. God, what if it stayed like that forever?

"Just give it a minute or two, and it should," Carl said. "I see your education is lacking," he added dryly. Derek felt his ears flame. "Don't worry, son, we can fix that. How about you stay late tonight, after the center closes, and we can talk about it. Sound good?"

Derek admired Carl so much—the man had grown up here, but now he had some money, and he'd made something of himself. He helped other people, people just like he'd been. Derek thought that would be awesome. Hang out with Carl all by himself, not having to share his attention with twenty other kids? "Yeah!" he said.

And Carl smiled and gave him a little sideways hug around the shoulders. "Good." His voice went back to a whisper. "And it looks like your little problem went away." He patted Derek's hip.

Morgan shook his head. The adult, the profiler in him, understood that what Buford had done to him wasn't his fault. That he would have gotten to him one way or another, because he was the kind of kid abusers liked—troubled, without enough supervision or enough resources. He'd lost his dad, and while his ma did the best she could for him and his sisters, she had to work more than one job just to keep a roof over their heads and food in their stomachs, leaving little time for direct supervision. But another part of him wanted to scream at that innocent boy, to shake him for giving the man a perfect opening into his life.

Mama had liked Buford. "It's so nice to meet you, Carl. Derek's told me all about you," she said, handing the man a glass of lemonade with a smile. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate you taking him under your wing."

Derek sat next to his mentor on the sofa. "He's been teaching me a bunch of awesome stuff. Do you know that he used to be a quarterback? He played for Northwestern University! Isn't that awesome?"

His mother smiled. "Wow. You know, Derek wants to try out for the football team, but it makes me nervous...I always worry he's going to get hurt."

"We've thrown the pigskin around a little; he's not bad at all. If he gains a few pounds and adds some inches, I think he might have a real shot at playing for Northwestern himself."

"Well, he's only twelve. We have a few years before we have to worry about that one way or the other," Mama said.

"Almost thirteen!" Derek protested. "My birthday's coming up, you know."

Mama rolled her eyes. "Believe me, honey, I know. I was there. For twelve looong hours."

"Hey Derek, can I talk to your mom for a minute? I have something I want to ask her," Carl said. Derek knew that tone of voice; he and his sisters called it "The-adults-have-to-talk." Carl had phrased it as a request, but if he didn't scoot, his ma was going to kick him out of the living room.

"Okay. Uh, I'm gonna go get more lemonade," he said, picking up his nearly empty glass. He walked into the hallway and stopped just inside the doorway, where his mother couldn't see him from her seat.

"Mrs. Morgan—"

"Oh please, call me Fran," Ma said.

"Fran. The other day when the youth center was doing community service for some of the senior citizens around here, Derek came to me with a little problem."

"What? Is he okay? He's not in trouble again, is he?" His mother sounded as though she was getting ready to be exasperated. "I warned him that if he—"

"No, no, nothing like that. He's a good boy, never makes trouble around the center. But, well...he's getting to that age, and since his dad is gone, I think he might not understand all the changes he's starting to go through. He came up to me, panicking, because he had an erection. I don't think he understood what was going on. Have you talked to him about any of that stuff yet?"

Derek felt his face burn. Carl was talking to his MAMA about that? Oh, he could just die!

"Oh! No, I...I guess I thought I still had time. I mean, he's only twelve..." His ma sounded almost as embarrassed as he felt. Her breath hitched. "I always thought Sam would take care of it...we always said that I'd deal with the girls, and he'd make sure Derek knew everything he needed to. I didn't...oh, jeez."

"Believe me, you're not the only parent I've had this exact conversation with," Carl said. "But kids seem to grow up faster now than they did when I was a boy, and I don't want him getting into trouble; with a face like his, the girls are going to be all over him."

"I know I have to talk to him about it. But surely, he's too young to have to worry about him getting a girl pregnant," Mama sounded like she was mumbling into her hands. "Oh, Sam..."

There was a tactful silence. Then Carl cleared his throat. "If you want, I was thinking it might be a good idea to take him to my cabin and spend the weekend. I've taught more than a few boys about the birds and the bees, and it could be fun for him to get out of the city for a weekend. Like a birthday present, you know? To celebrate his becoming a man." Carl gave a slightly embarrassed little chuckle.

"You don't have to do that," Mama said.

"I don't mind, really. He's not the only boy who hasn't had a father to teach him what he needs to know. And Derek's a good kid. I'd hate to see him not reach his potential because of a childish mistake."

That seemed to decide it for his mom. "Well, I really would appreciate it. I worry about him, you know. But he's stopped getting into trouble as often since he joined the youth center, and he just raves about you. Carl this, Carl that. He thinks the world of you."

Another little chuckle from Carl. "Yeah, he's a great kid. He's one of my favorites."

Suddenly, Derek remembered that he wasn't supposed to be eavesdropping; he was supposed to be filling up his glass, which would not have taken this long. Hastily, he tiptoed down the hall and into the kitchen, and poured some lemonade into his glass. Then he raised his voice. "Are you guys done talking yet?" he hollered down the hallway. "Because it is really boring in here all by myself."

He heard his ma's generous chuckle. "You can come back in here, Derek," she called back. "Carl has a surprise for you..."

Morgan scoffed in the quiet of his living room. Yeah, he'd had a hell of a surprise. But the problem was that Derek had been just a kid. He hadn't understood that Carl's actions had been textbook. He hadn't known that he was being groomed.

The first time Carl had taken him to his cabin, nothing really had happened. They'd had a terribly awkward—at least on Derek's part—conversation about the birds and the bees, and Carl had taken him on a boat ride since it was still too chilly to go swimming. They caught and released fish, and Carl showed him how to whittle, until Derek sliced open his thumb. Carl had helped him clean it and bandage it, all the while telling him of when he'd learned to whittle, and how he'd done the same thing. They had a campfire and roasted s'mores, and Carl drank beer. He offered one to Derek after extracting a promise not to tell his mother. He had felt terribly grown-up, holding his own can of Bud. He didn't think much of the taste and only drank half of it, but it hardly mattered. And that night, Carl had tucked him into bed and softly ruffled his hair before leaving him in the dark.

And Morgan damned the man, because he'd made him feel so special, so grown up, so happy that weekend. He'd worshiped the ground the man walked on.

It only made the subsequent betrayal that much uglier.


	2. Chapter 2

Morgan wanted a beer more than anything, but he knew he'd better not. Not when he was feeling like this. He was liable to spiral into an angry sort of depression when these memories hit him, even cold sober. Even a little alcohol could make it that much more likely.

He stood up and went into the kitchen, Clooney right on his heels. He poured himself a glass of milk, and grabbed a dog-biscuit and tossed it to the salivating mutt. Clooney crunched it up in less than three bites and wagged his tail softly. Morgan took his glass of milk and his dog back to the couch, and settled back in. He sighed, and patted the seat again until Clooney climbed back up. He tossed his arm around the dog's shaggy neck.

Carl had been clever. Before Derek had even known what was going on, he was in over his head.

It had seemed really innocent at first. If Buford hadn't been a child molester, some of it WOULD have been innocent. Carl had always been physically affectionate to the youth center kids, always there with a hug, an arm around the shoulder, or a pat on the back. No one could object to the favors he'd done, like driving Derek home when it was raining or buying him a soda. He encouraged the kids to talk to him about their problems at home or school, and he had a way of expressing exactly the right amount of sympathy. But as a profiler, Morgan knew that things like that were exactly how abusers tricked their victims—they started with little, innocent things, and gradually twisted them until they weren't innocent anymore. And Derek's case had been textbook.

After the trip Carl had taken him on, Derek idolized the man. He wanted to impress him, much like a son wants to impress his father. When playing football, he ran faster and practiced harder, drinking in his mentor's praise. He would stay late to help him put away equipment, or even just to help him clean up around the Youth Center. They would talk, or rather, Derek would talk and Carl would listen. At home, it was pretty rare for the seventh grader to get more than a few minutes of attention at a shot—when Ma wasn't at work, she was always busy trying to keep their home from falling into chaos, and his sisters were almost always too busy with their friends or boys to hang out with their brother. But Carl would talk with him about whatever, be it football, school problems, or girls, and he had good advice.

"If you want to take her to the dance, you're gonna have to ask her," Carl said, picking up another basketball and putting it on the storage rack. "You aren't afraid, are you?" Carl teased.

"Nah," Derek said. "But it's just...well..."

"Whatever it is, can't be that bad," Carl said.

"I-dunno-how-to-dance," Derek mumbled, stooping to pick up another ball.

"What was that?" Carl asked.

"I can't ask Lisa to a dance if I don't know how to dance! I mean, I do know how to dance, but not with a girl. Just, you know—" Derek bounce-passed the ball to his mentor and did a couple of moves he'd seen on Soul Train. "Not slow dances or anything, though."

"Well, that's easy enough," the man said. He put the ball away and flipped on the radio that was balanced precariously on the top shelf of the ball rack. "C'mere, I'll show you."

Derek gave him a look. "That's weird. Guys don't dance together."

"Who's gonna know? Anyway, you gotta learn somehow. You shouldn't miss out 'cause you don't know how to dance." He beckoned at Derek, who looked around the abandoned youth center before walking closer.

"Alright, I guess." He planted his feet and crossed his arms over his chest. "Now what?"

"Well, first off, you can't stand like that. You have to relax." Derek dropped his hands to his side, feeling completely ridiculous. Carl stepped forward into Derek's space, almost like he was going to hug him. "Then she'll probably put her arms around your neck," he said, demonstrating. "You'll put your arms on her sides, or around her waist."

Derek laughed nervously. "Man, this is too weird!" he protested, and if Carl's hands hadn't been locked behind his neck, he would have stepped back.

"No one's watching," Carl pointed out. "And it's not like I'm gonna tell anyone where you learned to dance. Go on."

Hesitantly, Derek placed his hands on Carl's sides.

"I'm not gonna bite," Carl said, and there was a hint of amusement in his voice. "Now, all you have to do is move, slowly, with the music. And I know you can do that." The man started to sway from foot to foot, and Derek followed him. "You might turn in circles, but real slowly! Don't make her dizzy. Yup, like that. Alright, now, I'm gonna follow your lead."

Derek concentrated on turning them in a slow circle.

"You're frowning. You shouldn't have to concentrate that hard, Derek. And if you frown at her, she's gonna think you don't like her."

"It's not as easy as you make it sound," Derek defended. "What if I step on her feet or something? Or pinch her? Between swaying and trying to keep track of my feet and figuring out what to do with my hands, how is this supposed to be any fun?"

"Just relax. And if you link your hands around her waist, like a loose hug, you won't pinch her. As for the feet, you shuffle them rather than taking real steps. Nobody should get stepped on that way." His mentor grinned. "And I'm sure this will be plenty of fun with a pretty girl in your arms."

And it had been; he'd been nervous, dancing with Lisa, but he'd also been grateful that Carl had shown him how. And at the end of the night, she'd kissed him on the lips: his first kiss. Derek smiled, remembering.

He ruffled Clooney's fur again. "I thought I'd won the lottery that night, boy," he remarked to his dog. "Swear that I walked home on air. It was probably the best birthday present I've ever gotten. Made me feel like a real man." He smiled at his own youthful pride.

Clooney sighed and laid down, his heavy head resting on Derek's thigh. The smile dropped from his face as less pleasant memories replaced those of Lisa and her shiny, cherry-flavored lip gloss.

Why hadn't he realized how odd Carl's actions were as the weeks went by? That it wasn't normal, the way Carl would get just a little too close, brush up against him? His mind had rationalized it as accidental, even though it gave him a weird, uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach. He had actually liked it when Carl would hug him or pat his back, and he'd only been grateful for the gifts the man had bought him. Alarm bells should have gone off when Carl had brought him back to the cabin for another weekend and told him he didn't have to bother with a swimsuit, since there was no one around for miles. Why had he said "Okay" to that? Why had he just ignored all those squirmy feelings in the pit of his stomach that had told him that something wasn't right?

These were old questions; questions he thought he'd made peace with long ago. But Hotch's actions tonight had brought them all back, screaming into the front of his mind.

After all, the line had been crossed all those years ago by a spanking. One very different from the one Hotch had delivered on that rooftop tonight, but a spanking all the same. It had been the beginning of keeping Carl's horrible secret, although Derek hadn't known it at the time. Even now, he remembered it like it was yesterday.

The boys scrabbled in the dirt, fists swinging. "Take it back, you ugly bastard!" Derek yelled, slamming his rival's head into the ground. Angel managed to get one fist free, and clocked him hard in the ribs. And then, suddenly, someone had the back of his shirt and was yanking him to his feet.

"What the hell is going on here!" Carl's voice boomed out over the two fighters.

"He was insulting my sister!" Derek hollered.

"Not an insult if it true!" Angel smirked, getting off the ground. Blood dripped freely from his nose. "And I heard all them guys saying that bitch a good piece of—"

"ENOUGH!" Carl said. "Not another word from either of you. My office, now!"

"To hell with that," Angel spat. "I'm gone."

"If you leave, don't bother to come back," Carl told him. "There's no fighting here."

"Psh. I got better places to be." The kid turned and limped out of the fencing that surrounded the youth center. '

Carl's hand was still fisted in the back of his shirt. The man gave him a little shove. "The office," he repeated sternly. Derek did as he was told, holding his head up defiantly as he made his way past the silently watching kids that had formed a circle around the fighters. He heard Carl say,"The rest of you, get to putting stuff away. It's almost closing, anyway. I'll see ya tomorrow."

Derek wrapped his arm around his sore ribs as he waited in Carl's office. He hadn't been in trouble at the youth center before; he respected Carl, and didn't want to make problems. But when Angel had started talking smack about Desi, he'd seen red. No one got to insult his family. No one.

Carl came in and shut the door with a bang "Explain." His voice was hard.

"He was saying shi—stuff about my sister. Said she was..." Derek reconsidered repeating Angel's words to his mentor; that kind of language wouldn't win him anything. "Anyway, my sister's no slut. No one gets to say that kind of stuff about my family!"

"I know that's gonna make you mad, Derek, but flat-out brawling? There's no excuse—"

"What if it was your sister? You'd just let some asshole talk about her like that and not show him what's up?" Derek glared at his mentor. "I don't believe that."

Carl seemed to consider that, studying him for a moment. When he finally spoke, his voice had softened a little. "You're hurt," he said, looking at Derek's arms where they shielded his ribs. "Let me see."

"I'm okay," Derek denied.

"Derek." It was not a request. He patted the top of his desk. "Sit up here so I can see what kind of damage you got going there."

Derek carefully sat on the edge of the desk. He tried not to wince as he carefully pulled his shirt off, exposing a rapidly darkening set of bruises. Carl reached into a small fridge/freezer behind his desk and grabbed an ice pack. "Think they're broken?" he asked, wrapping the pack in the teen's discarded tee-shirt.

Derek shook his head; he'd never broken a rib, but had heard that it hurt like hell. He was sore, but it wasn't brutal or anything.

"Lemme check." Carl put the pack on the desk and ran his hands slowly over Derek's ribcage. His fingers were cold as they traced along his side. It might have tickled if he hadn't been so sore. "Worse when I do this?" he asked, pressing against his side. Derek drew air in through his teeth.

"Well, _yeah_, but it's a bruise," he said. "Gonna hurt if you push on it."

Carl snorted and dropped his hands. "I don't think they're broken."

"Told you," Derek replied sullenly.

Carl's face went stern again. "Derek, I can understand why you wanted to pound his face into the pavement, but that doesn't mean I condone it. I can't let it go unpunished."

Derek held his breath. His ma was going to be so pissed if she heard about this. "Carl, I—"

The man handed him the ice pack."You're banned for two weeks, son. And I'm gonna call your mother."

Derek felt his face fall, even as he pressed the ice against the worst of the bruising. "Two weeks? Mama's gonna kill me, man! She don't like to leave me alone all that time, 'specially not when she's working the graveyard. She says she wouldn't even know if I didn't make it home if you didn't drop me off after the center closes." He was stumbling over his words, trying to explain. "Carl, please!"

Carl looked regretful, but his voice was stern. "You know that the rules around here: no guns, no drugs, and no violence. Beating Angel Laurence into the ground definitely counts as violence. And there's got to be consequences. You should just count yourself lucky I didn't call the cops."

That made Derek blanch. Last time he'd been picked up, he'd been threatened with juvie. That in itself had scared him half to death, but then his mama had picked him up at the station. She had gone ballistic. The halls of the cop shop had echoed as she bawled out her son, or at least it had seemed that way to Derek. And when they'd gotten home, she'd whupped his butt. _Then_ she grounded him for a month. Fran Morgan loved her children, but she did not tolerate bullshit. "Please, Carl, I'm begging you. You can punish me however you want, but don't ban me from here." Derek licked his lips nervously. "And please, _please_ don't mention the cops to my ma. Please!" If he never saw the business end of that wooden spoon again, it would still be too soon.

Carl was considering it; Derek could tell by the look on the man's face. And it wasn't like Derek would mind helping Carl clean up the center. He did that anyway, just to hang out with the man. And even if he had to do the truly gross stuff, like scrubbing out the toilets, it would be way better than the fury his mama would kick up.

"What would your mother do?" Carl asked finally. Derek felt his cheeks heat up a little. He looked down at his dirty sneakers. But Carl didn't break the silence, so Derek knew he'd have to answer.

"She'd probably whup my butt. With a spoon," he admitted reluctantly, because part of him was pretty sure that thirteen was getting kind of old for a spanking. "She really, really hates fighting."

The silence seemed really long to Derek, but he was afraid to look up. He prayed that Carl wouldn't ban him from here and tell his mom. He let God know his willingness to scrub toilets for the next two_ years_ if Mama didn't have to hear about this.

Carl let out a sigh. "Alright, Derek. But this is for your mother's sake, as much as yours; I know that she worries about you being on your own too much. So I'll take care of it."

Derek tried not to sigh his relief too loudly. "Thank you. I promise I'll—"

"Hang on a second, son. You might not be thanking me in a minute here." Carl looked him straight in the eye. "This was a big deal. I saw you pounding Angel's head into the dirt. His nose was bleeding. You don't think that cleaning up around the youth center is going to be punishment enough for something that big, do you? You do that anyway, just to help out. If you were much older, much bigger, I would have called the cops, and that's no lie. I wouldn't have tried to break up a fight like that among the bigger boys, 'cause I have no need for broken bones."

Derek felt his heart start to pound at the mention of the cops. If Carl wasn't going to make him work it off here at the youth center...he had no idea what his punishment would be. "So then, uh...what you gonna do?" He drew his lower lip into his mouth, waiting.

Carl's gaze was intense. "Honestly, I think your mama has the right idea. So unless you've changed your mind about wanting me to take care of your punishment, I'm gonna spank you."

That was not what Derek had been expecting to hear. He inhaled rapidly through his nose. "Spank me?" he repeated, surprised.

"Unless you'd rather stick with the original plan, and have me call your mom," Carl said, watching him closely. "It's your choice."

Derek weighed it in his head. If Carl told his ma, odds were she'd pull out that wooden spoon, and ground him besides. But both of those things paled in comparison to the guilt Derek would feel, stressing out his mama like that. And it would cause her a lot of stress to know that Derek had nothing to keep him out of trouble during the long hours she was at work. If Carl spanked him, well, that would suck, but he'd survive, and it would save him a lot of trouble at home. He swallowed hard and gathered up his courage. "Okay," he said.

"Okay?" Carl asked.

"I'd rather you did it. I mean, I just don't want to freak out my ma, you know?" He felt both terrified and brave. Carl was, plain and simple, bigger and stronger than his mother, and he knew this was gonna hurt. "I shouldn'ta been fighting, so this is my own fault anyway. Mama shouldn't have to suffer for it."

Carl squeezed his shoulder. "There's the Derek Morgan I know and love," he said. Even in these weird, somewhat scary circumstances, Carl's praise gave Derek a warm feeling in his chest. "Alright, champ, let's get this over with."

The big man sat down on the straight-backed chair in front of his desk. "Put down the ice pack," he said. Derek put it down on the surface of the desk, unsure of how this was going to go down. "Stand up," Carl continued to direct. Derek wondered if his mentor could see his nervousness. He put his hands on Derek's hips and pulled him forward between his knees. "Drop your jeans."

That froze him. It wasn't because he was ashamed of Carl seeing him or anything; at the cabin, he'd gone swimming in nothing but skin and Carl had assured him that his body was perfectly normal for his age. But that was in the middle of the woods, way far away from any other people, and this was in Carl's office. Not that there was anyone here except the two of them, but it just felt strange. His stomach was starting to knot from nerves. "Carl?" he asked, and his voice sounded young and nervous to his own ears. "Mama never made me..."

"Son, your ma knows you're too old to be getting undressed in front of her; she doesn't want to embarrass you. But there's no reason for you to be embarrassed; it's not like you have anything I haven't seen before."

Derek still didn't move. His heart was pounding like he'd just run a race. "But—"

"And anyway, your mom uses a spoon. But it isn't like I paddle kids on a regular basis around here, so all I've got is my hand." Derek's eyes dropped to Carl's hand; suddenly, it seemed absolutely massive. "And I have no intention of wearing out my hand trying to get through a bunch of clothing."

It made a weird sort of sense to Derek, but still his stomach was twisted up like a ball of yarn after a cat got to it. Reluctantly, he tried to undo the button of his jeans, but his hands were sweaty and shaking. Carl said, "I've got it," and gently batted his hands aside. Derek stood, frozen, wanting to protest that he could do it, but unable to speak. Before he found his voice, his mentor unbuttoned his jeans and gave them a yank, sending them pooling down around his knees. His boxers followed soon after. Embarrassed, Derek covered his penis with his hands, which Carl thankfully ignored.

"Alright. Because your ribs are sore, I'm going to put you over my knees," Carl explained. He maneuvered Derek around to his side. Derek shuffled, hobbled by the constraints of his clothes. "It should keep them from getting jostled too much."

Derek felt himself blush right to the roots of his hair. Over his _knees_? What was he, five? His mama never did that; hadn't since he was a little boy. Wasn't he too damn big for that? But he didn't say anything, because he was afraid that if he protested, Carl would decide to tell his mom instead. Or even worse, call the cops. And anyway, he'd told Carl he could punish him however he wanted...

The man positioned Derek, who was shaking as adrenalin flooded his system, carefully over his lap. Derek pressed his hands against the floor and tried not to think. "That okay on your ribs?" Carl asked.

This had to be the weirdest conversation he'd ever had, Derek decided, but he nodded. Carl's hand rubbed at his back for a moment, and Derek was suddenly, horribly aware that except for the jeans bunched around his knees, he was pretty much naked. He felt his face flame anew. It was not the same, being naked like this as it was when going swimming. His belly clenched, and for a moment, he wondered if he might puke.

Then Carl's hand fell hard against his butt, and there was a loud cracking noise. The pain was immediate. His concerns over being so exposed were forgotten; all Derek could think about was how much this _hurt._ He gritted his teeth, determined to take his punishment like a man. He didn't want Carl to think he was a baby.

But despite his best intentions to stay silent, Carl was _strong_, and his hand was _huge_. It hurt way more than Mama's spoon, which Derek wouldn't have even thought was possible. He could hear his teeth squeaking, even over the loud smacks of skin against skin. They came fast, hard, and unrelenting.

_SMACK! _A particularly hard swat to the back of his thigh was what broke him. It sent the tears that had been pooling in his eyes spilling down his face. He couldn't contain the strangled cry, and instinctively, he threw his hand back to protect his burning skin. Carl grabbed his wrist and pinned it to the small of his back, barely even breaking stride.

It wasn't long after that before Derek started to plead. "O-ow! I'm sorry! Carl, I'm s-sorry!" He couldn't remember the last time he'd been spanked hard enough to _make_ him cry, but he was sobbing now. "P-please!"

Carl didn't seem to even hear him. Derek felt like he was choking on his own snot, and he struggled against his mentor's restraining hand, his legs jerking and kicking from the pain. "P-please! S-s-stop!"

Yet it still continued, each second seeming to stretch for minutes. Finally, he could do nothing except wail wordlessly, like a bawling baby. And then, suddenly, Derek found himself upright again, wrapped in his mentor's arms and sobbing helplessly into the front of his shirt.

It took him a minute to calm his ragged breathing enough to hear what Carl was whispering in his ear. "Shh, that's my good boy. You'll be okay. Shh, champ. Okay. Okay." His hand smoothed over Derek's hair.

"I-I-I'm s-sorry!" Derek cried, his voice muffled by Carl's shirt. His vow to take this punishment like a man was long-forgotten. "S-so s-s-s—"

"Shh. I know. You're okay. Just breathe for me. That's my boy." Carl continued to croon nonsense into his ear, the same hand that had brutally spanked him now rubbing his back.

It was a couple of minutes before Derek pulled it together enough to realize that he was still practically naked. He tried to push away from Carl's arms, embarrassed, but Carl didn't release him. "It's okay, Derek," he said into his ear. "Just relax."

"I-I just wanna, uh—"

Carl cut him off. "You don't have to be embarrassed, Derek. I know that hurt; it was supposed to. I expected you to cry. But it's over now, and you're never going to fight like that again, right? I'd hate to have to give you another spanking." He grabbed Derek's arms and let him take a step back, studying him. Derek's eyes felt like they were practically swollen shut from crying so hard, and he was trembling with the aftereffects of all that sobbing, but even so, he just wanted to be able to get dressed again. He felt terribly exposed and vulnerable, especially now that Carl had his biceps in his hands, effectively preventing him from covering himself from view.

"N-no sir, never," Derek promised fervently He looked down; between his nudity and the fact that the man had just spanked him, he was too embarrassed to look his mentor in the face.

Suddenly, Carl hooked one hand behind his neck and pulled him forward again. Derek's face shot up, half-afraid that the man was going to continue with that awful spanking. Maybe he hadn't believed him? But Derek meant it; he was never, ever going to fight again. At least not here! If something like this happened again, he was going to take his chances with Mama!

But Carl didn't spank him anymore. Instead, he was surprised by a kiss that landed directly on his lips. Derek jerked back so hard he hit the desk behind him. He yelped as the hard surface came into contact with his sore butt.

"I'm sorry, Derek. I didn't mean to scare you," Carl said, and suddenly the man was standing over him, too close. He looked remorseful. "Are you okay? Did you hurt your ribs?" His hands darted to Derek's ribs again, as if to feel for damage.

Derek shook his head, pulling back a little. "I'm o-okay," he mumbled. Derek bent and quickly yanked up his jeans, his butt screaming at him again as the fabric rasped over the sore, inflamed skin. He didn't know what to think. Had Carl really just kissed him on the lips? Had that really just happened? It reminded him of the kiss Lisa had planted on him after the dance, and that made his stomach twist, because that wasn't right. Kisses like that belonged with Lisa, not Carl. He swallowed hard, then steeled up the raggedy ends of his courage.

"You k-kissed me," he whispered, more than a little confused. "Why'd you..."

"Oh, Derek, I wasn't thinking," Carl said. "I'm sorry, champ. My dad always hugged and kissed me after a spanking. He said he wanted me to know he still loved me, even though I'd been naughty. I was just going on instinct. I meant to let you know that you're forgiven, champ." He hugged Derek again.

Derek felt more confused than ever. Carl's dad had kissed him on the lips? His own parents never did that; they kissed on the cheek. But he knew for a fact that some parents kissed their kids on the lips...He guessed that didn't matter all that much. Maybe he was only freaking out because he was just embarrassed about Carl spanking him. And it was weird to be undressed in front of someone in a place where people usually had their clothes on; it reminded him of the awful dream he'd had last week, where he'd been in front of the class and suddenly had no clothes. But on top of those uncomfortable feelings was that familiar warmth in his chest that he felt any time the man treated him like a son. If Carl was just treating Derek like Carl's daddy had treated him, well, there was nothing bad about that, right? After all, Derek's daddy had loved him and his sisters more than anything. Carl's dad surely felt the same way about his son. But even though this made sense, Derek's stomach still felt funny. He shoved that strange feeling aside and nodded. "Okay," he said, and his voice sounded almost normal again. "Okay, Carl. I p-promise, no more fighting."

"That's my good boy." Carl released him, then patted his shoulder softly. "Get your shirt on, and I'll take you home, okay?" he said, taking a step back. "Your mama home tonight?"

Derek shook his head. "But you said you weren't gonna tell her," he reminded the man tentatively, pulling his shirt away from the ice pack and carefully slipping it over his head. He shivered as the cold fabric slipped over his skin, and briefly wondered if an ice pack would help his tortured butt feel any better.

"I won't, son. I was just asking. C'mon, let's get you home."

And just like that, Carl had gotten his hooks into him. Derek suddenly became aware of warm wetness on his cheeks, and he swiped angrily at the tears with the palm of his hand..

He hadn't known how completely fucked up Carl's actions were then. That no sane adult in that situation would have done such a thing to a kid; not the spanking, especially not like that, and sure as hell not the kiss. But he'd been so young, that when Carl explained stuff to him, he didn't know enough to know the explanations didn't make sense. He hadn't liked Carl's kisses, especially as they became more and more sexual, but he hadn't known that it wasn't normal for an adult to kiss a kid like that. And every time he'd objected when Carl escalated the abuse, the man would tell him how special he was, and how much he loved him, and that people who loved each other did things to make each other feel good. And it felt good, didn't it? And some of it had, and even when it didn't, even when it hurt or he was scared, he kept quiet because he had been so confused. Because there was a part of him that had loved Carl and wanted to please him, especially in the early stages. And there was another part of him that was fiercely proud. He could remember his daddy telling him that Morgans always repaid their debts. Carl had given him so much—he'd kept him off the streets and out of juvie, for one, not to mention hundreds of dollars worth of gifts. He'd written that letter to the judge that had convinced him to expunge and seal his juvenile record, which had indirectly gotten him into school. Then there was the football coaching, and the trips, and the things that he'd wished his dad could be there for. Derek had thought he owed his mentor, and the only thing that Carl had wanted from him...was him.

By the time that Derek figured out that what Carl was doing was really, really wrong, there were hundreds of reasons not to tell, and the biggest of them all was the fear that other people would find out. Like Lisa, or any of the other girls he was interested in as the years went on, because surely they'd think he was gay if they knew. Or like the guys in his gym class and the football team, who made fun of "faggots" all the time in the locker room; Derek wasn't so sure that he wasn't one, because otherwise, why would Carl have done that stuff to him? Like his sisters and his mother. God, the last thing he wanted to do was tell his mama about this stuff. She'd probably cry, and Derek just wouldn't do that to her.

Then there had been his own worries, his own guilt and shame and fear. After that spanking, he'd always been a little bit physically afraid of Carl, who was big and imposing. He was afraid that what Carl was doing to him meant he was gay. He was even more afraid that if anyone found out, they would _say_ he was gay, and in his neighborhood, that was practically a death sentence. After all, why would a guy who liked girls (which Derek very much did) let a _man_ do that kind of stuff to him? He'd been in college before that identity crisis let up completely.

Carl had helped him get accepted to that school, after writing that letter to the judge and getting his record expunged. Derek wouldn't have made it into Northwestern on his own, even with his football skills, because he never would have gotten the scholarships that made it possible; criminals didn't get scholarships. Carl had never had to tell him not to tell anyone; he just made it impossible for Derek to do so because he had so damn much to lose if he did.

But Derek had lost a lot anyway. Derek had been a few months shy of fifteen when Carl had stolen his virginity, but he had taken Derek's innocence long before. He'd felt so guilty, so dirty all the time. He'd hated it all, even the stuff that didn't hurt, even the stuff that had felt good, because there was something inside of him that told him that it was wrong. Unfortunately, that same something hadn't blamed Carl, but rather himself. He'd spent his teens thinking that he'd _made_ the man do this stuff to him, because he was too good-looking and too eager for attention from a father-figure; Carl would say things like, "How could I resist a boy as pretty and willing as you?" Morgan the profiler understood that those words were the rationalization of a sick son-of-a-bitch preying on a kid who was desperate for a father-figure, but Derek the boy hadn't understood any such thing.

After they'd connected the murders to Buford, it had struck Morgan that he'd only lived to adulthood because he'd never told Carl no, never even threatened to tell anyone about what the man was doing. He'd barely made it to the bathroom before becoming desperately, violently ill. He could have been one of those dead boys, killed by a man who said that he loved them, he realized. Those ashen, gray faces...his could have been among them. He'd hidden in the bathroom for nearly half an hour, trying to pull himself together again.

As a teenager Morgan had desperately hated himself. He'd hated his own cowardice. He'd begged Carl not to do make him do certain things, begged him not to touch him...but he'd never run away and he'd never fought back. Carl would put his hands on him, and he'd be helpless to stop the man, doing what he was told as a part of him hid in the corner of his own mind. Even as he got bigger, grew to the point where fighting Carl off was a physical possibility, he'd never tried. He'd always just stared up at the sky as Carl had told him and tried not to think about what the man was doing to his body.

In college, his self-hatred grew even stronger. He was far away from Carl, and the man had lost interest in him anyway as his body changed from lanky teenager to muscular young man, but he still felt that fear that one day, all of this stuff was going to come back and bite him in the ass. He pushed it deep into the dustiest corner of his mind, sleeping with every desirable woman willing to grace his bed...and there had been plenty. It had reassured him that he was normal, that they couldn't see what Carl had done to him.

Working with James as the teen got ready to testify had helped him forgive his younger self, or so he'd thought...until tonight. Tonight, he hated that kid he'd been so much.

Another angry tear escaped, and he growled as he swiped his hand over his cheek again. Part of him wanted to go back to that old way of dealing with it—to call up a beautiful honey and fuck until he could erase that phantom feeling of Carl on his skin. It was only eleven—he could still pick up a girl at his favorite club.

Instead, he got up and headed back into the bathroom. Another shower wouldn't hurt anything, and he wasn't really feeling on top of his game tonight.

He stayed in there, scrubbing at his skin until the water turned cold.


	3. Chapter 3

The shivering man re-dressed himself in the pajamas he'd discarded on the dresser and crawled into his bed, burrowing under the covers. Clooney bounded up and curled into a ball next to him, panting his doggy breath into his master's face. "Good boy," Derek said, scratching his shaggy head. He didn't usually let Clooney sleep on the bed—women didn't seem to like finding dog hair on the pillow—but tonight, he'd make an exception.

He curled on his side, letting his dog's bulk warm his back. His eyes closed. It was only midnight, but Morgan was exhausted. Things, he hoped, would seem better in the morning.

He had nearly drifted off when he heard a knock on the door. Morgan cursed as Clooney barked loudly in his ear. There was no way he could pretend to have slept through that!

Reluctantly, he shoved off the warm covers and left his bedroom, the dog right on his heels. On instinct, he picked up his gun on the way to the door. He glanced through the spy hole, and his eyes widened as his blood turned to ice.

It was Hotch.

Clooney barked again, stirring him into action. He had to answer it, he decided. Hotch had likely figured out that he was standing on the other side of the door anyway, what with Clooney barking like a maniac and all.

He put the gun down on the small table beside the entrance that held his keys. "Back, Clooney," he warned, and slowly opened the door. His dog promptly ignored him, shoving his snout out the small opening. "What's up, Hotch? Do we have a case? I thought I left my phone on..." He hoped his voice sounded normal.

The man looked at him, and Morgan could see that Hotch saw right through him. "It's not about a case, Morgan."

"You gonna enlighten me as to why you're standing on my porch in the middle of the night then?" He'd already started on this gambit; might as well really commit. "I was already in bed."

"May I come in?" Hotch asked quietly.

Morgan hesitated, but only for a second. He didn't want to have this conversation, but there was no good way to refuse. "Yeah. Clooney, back off!" He grabbed the dog by the collar and hauled him away from the door so that he wouldn't maul his boss.

Hotch stepped inside and removed his shoes. Clooney inserted himself between the two men, but didn't try to jump on Hotch like he usually did with visitors. Morgan reached down and scratched the dog's head.

"Can we sit? Please?" With those words Morgan saw a vulnerability in his boss that was not usually apparent, and the knot in his gut unclenched just a little. Hotch was just as nervous as he was, if not more so. Strangely enough, that made Morgan feel like they were on more equal footing.

"Yeah, sorry. Come on," Morgan said.

He led Hotch into the living room and sat on the couch, clicking the switch on a table lamp. Clooney resumed his place beside him, and Hotch sat on the leather recliner to his right. Morgan couldn't think of anything to say, and he looked at the tops of his knees. Damn; he was still wearing those goofy pajama pants Garcia had given him. He blushed and hoped it wasn't noticeable in the faint light.

Hotch finally spoke. "Morgan, I want to explain," he said.

Morgan felt his brow crease a little, but he nodded silently. He heard Hotch take a breath.

"But first, I need to apologize. I am so sorry for how I treated you on that roof top. I had absolutely no right to hit you like that. It was completely inexcusable, and I am fully prepared to take responsibility for my actions. So tomorrow, I am going to resign from my position. And as a lawyer, I feel compelled to tell you that you have a case against me, should you wish to press charges."

Morgan felt his eyebrows shoot up in surprise as he finally looked at the man's face. He had not been expecting that. "Hotch—"

"Please let me finish," Hotch requested, and Morgan shut his mouth. His boss looked down, seeming to collect his thoughts.

"When I was a child, my father was well-liked and well-respected in the community. He was social and charming. Everyone wanted to be his friend.

"At home, he was a drunk who would terrorize my mother and me, using physical violence to control us and keep us under his thumb. But from the outside, we looked like a perfect family, if you could ignore the occasional bruises. And people are very good at ignoring that kind of thing, because money can talk very loudly.

"As a boy, I vowed that I would never raise my hand against my child in anger. Having received so many beatings that were patently unfair, that kind of violence was abhorrent to me."

Morgan didn't understand. What the hell did this have to do with anything? He wasn't a child, no matter what Hotch had done to him...

Hotch took a deep breath. "I have never punished Jack while angry. I've given him a spanking or two, but I've always waited until after I calm down. And tonight, I remembered why I have always made such an effort to do so."

Morgan felt frozen to the couch, barely breathing. That mental fog was back with a vengeance, making it hard to comprehend what his boss was saying.

"When I saw you go leaping across that ledge tonight, my heart stopped, Morgan. In those seconds, I thought about what I would have to tell your mother, your sisters, Garcia, Reid...the whole team. I thought about your body splashed across the pavement. It was terrifying." Hotch looked at him again, and their eyes met. "But then, thank God, you made it. You were across, and safe, and suddenly, all that fear turned to anger. Anger that you would risk your life like that, needlessly. And when I got over to that roof, and you were fine and in one piece, something inside of me snapped.

"I'd hit you before I even knew what I was doing. And I knew that it was wrong, that I had no right—you aren't my son, you aren't a child—but I could not get myself to stop. That is not an excuse because there is no excuse for what I did. It's just a fact. By the time my mind had caught up with my hand, I had already hit you repeatedly."

"Hotch," Morgan tried again, finally looking up at his boss' face. This time, the man didn't say anything, so Morgan continued. "Hotch, you didn't _hit_ me. So stop saying that. If you'd hauled off and slugged me, that would be something that I could understand at least. That's something one grown man might do to another, if he's angry enough. But you fucking spanked me! Like a kid!" He felt his throat tensing as his voice got louder. "Do you really think so little of me...respect me so little as to treat me like a _five-_year-old? That is humiliating, man!" He was yelling now, yelling at his boss. His voice sounded strange to his own ears, and he swallowed a few times, trying to get it back under control. The shame hit him then, and he looked away, unable to meet Hotch's eyes.

"Morgan, I _have_ a five year old," Hotch said in a low voice. "Once you have a child, you are always, first and foremost, a parent. While I usually can keep that role separate from my role as boss, I _am_ human. And tonight, it got tangled, and came out ugly. And I am sorry. I am so sorry that I disrespected you like that, that I hurt you and embarrassed you. I understand that I cannot take it back, but I will do everything I can to make it right. That is why I am going to hand in my resignation, and why if you decide to press charges against me, I will plead guilty. The last thing I want to do is humiliate you again."

"And what about Jack?" Morgan demanded..

"Excuse me?" Hotch replied.

"What about Jack? Depending on the judge, you could theoretically be looking at time," Morgan said, looking Hotch in the eye again. If he didn't think, they could be talking about a case, and it gave him back some control. "It would fall under battery, wouldn't it?" He heard his own words, but they felt far away.

Hotch nodded. "Jessica would take custody if necessary," he said. He looked grim.

Morgan could not believe this conversation. After the night he'd been having, it was just the icing on the top of the cake. And he still couldn't seem to get a handle on his emotions; they would flare and then, suddenly, be blanketed under a coating of unreality. He jumped up and began to pace back and forth.

Part of him wanted revenge. Wanted Hotch to feel humiliation and pain like he'd felt. Wanted him to pay for what he'd done.

But another part of him knew that it wasn't Aaron Hotchner he was really angry at. The man hadn't hurt him; the pain had only been temporary and relatively mild, especially when compared to how much falling off that building would have hurt. And the humiliation was mostly in his mind; no one had been around on that rooftop to see what Hotch had done. The most painful part of what had happened tonight hadn't occurred on that rooftop, but here, in his living room, in his mind. Taking revenge against Hotch couldn't fix that.

And it could leave another young boy without his daddy to protect him.

"What about the team, Hotch? What would you tell them?" Morgan asked, still pacing. His stomach felt like he'd swallowed ground glass.

"I haven't figured that out yet," Hotch replied. "I may take a day or two worth of leave before letting them know."

"You told me once that our team needed to stick together. You stepped down as team leader to keep us as a unit. Are you telling me now that that isn't true?" Morgan challenged, stopping dead in the middle of the floor. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared at his boss.

"No," Hotch said. "But I cannot ask you to overlook what I did to you, Morgan. Not even for the sake of the team. I won't do it."

"Why not? You've done a hell of a lot of stuff for the sake of the team, Aaron. We've all made sacrifices. Why wouldn't you ask me to let this go?" He stared down at his boss, his words hard. "It's just a few little words...'just forget about it, Morgan. We'll pretend this never happened, Morgan.' Too proud to ask?" Morgan wasn't sure who he was mocking with those words, as they'd never come from Aaron Hotchner's mouth. Hotch was all about justice. It made him up, as much or more than did flesh and bone and blood.

"No, Derek. I'm not. But I wouldn't ask that of you...of anyone." The man let out a small sigh. "I was the one who chose to...spank you on that rooftop. The consequences of that belong on my shoulders, and mine alone."

Derek shut his eyes and felt himself deflate. At Hotch's admission that he had indeed spanked him, all that anger and bluster he'd been using to hide behind disappeared in an instant. Now he just felt overwhelmed with emotions he couldn't name. "Excuse me," he managed around a mouthful of bile, and he beat feet to the bathroom again.

He vomited as silently as possible into the toilet, then sat on the edge of the tub and gripped his hands together between his knees.

This fell squarely in his lap. He had a choice to make, and unfortunately, there was no good answer. Not really. Because no matter what Morgan decided, someone innocent was going to have to pay the cost.

If he pressed charges against Hotch, little Jack Hotchner might have a couple of years without his daddy. And he knew that Jack thought his daddy was Superman. No kid deserved to have that taken from him. Derek knew what it was like, to lose your hero. He couldn't do that to another little boy. Especially not to a little boy who had already lost his mama.

If Hotch resigned tomorrow, the team would be in shock. He pictured his coworkers'—no, his friends'—faces. They would not take it well. Especially Reid, who had nearly gone off the rails when Gideon had left. He'd been furious with Emily and JJ when Emily had returned from the "dead," and had told JJ that he'd almost gone back to using. The kid would see Hotch's resignation as another betrayal. Morgan would put money on it. But what would that lead to? Another battle with Dilauded? It wasn't outside the realm of possibility. His stomach clenched again at the idea, and he bent forward over the toilet and spewed out another long stream of foul-tasting liquid.

He couldn't. He could not do that. Not to little Jack, and not to the team. Even as he thought that, his stomach finally began to settle.

There was a quiet tap on the door. "Morgan? Are you all right?" It was Hotch, of course, and he sounded concerned.

Morgan coughed and hoped his boss hadn't heard him throwing up. "I need a minute," he said hoarsely, his throat irritated by all the throwing up.

"Do you want me to go?"

Morgan shook his head, even though Hotch couldn't see him. "No," he said. "Just wait. I'll be out in a minute."

"Okay." He heard retreating footsteps.

Morgan sighed and rubbed his hand over his face. He flushed the toilet, and quickly washed up and rinsed out his mouth. He then braved a look in the mirror.

His own rich brown eyes stared back at him. They were just like his mother's. Unbidden, her words came to him. "Baby, everyone makes mistakes. But not everyone forgives. And forgiving somebody is the best thing you can do, because it's the only way that you'll ever let go of what they did to you." It was advice she'd given him long ago about some childish slight, but it still applied. And if he couldn't let go of this, it would hurt more than just him and Hotch.

"Okay, Mama," he whispered. He stood up straight, and left the safety of the bathroom.

Hotch was still in the living room, sitting on Derek's worn out leather chair. He looked up at him. "Are you okay?" he asked hesitantly. Morgan nodded.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he said. "Must have been bad Chinese earlier or something."

Hotch didn't say anything, but Morgan knew he wasn't fooled. He sighed and took up his abandoned seat on the couch next to Clooney, who was snoring softly. "Listen, Hotch. While I was in there, I did a little thinking. And as far as I can see, you owe it to me to hear me out. Agreed?"

Hotch nodded and gestured silently for him to continue.

"So I thought about it. Thought about what you said about pressing charges. And yeah, there's a part of me that wants revenge, because I'm only human. But then I thought about your little boy.

"Depending on the judge, you could see time. Not real likely, but possible. We both know that you don't belong in jail, Hotch. And a fed in jail? Something could happen. If you got hurt, that would be on me. How would I explain that to Jack, that his Uncle Derek put his daddy in jail and he got hurt? Over something that hurt nothing except my pride? And even if you came out fine, that's not fair to Jack, because he needs his daddy. You're all he has, man, and I can't take that away from him. I can't do that to a kid."

He could see relief in Hotch's eyes, but that relief was still tempered. His body language said that he expected Morgan to demand some other kind of recompense. Morgan toyed with the idea for another brief moment, but his mother's words echoed silently in his head. If he was going to do this, he'd do it right.

"Then, I thought about what you said about resigning. And Hotch? I can't let you do that."

"What?" It was rare that Hotch let his emotions show, but Derek was pretty sure he'd shocked the man into it, and surprise was plain on his usually stoic face. "Morgan, what I did to you, legally, is defined as assault and battery. If you don't want to press charges, that is your business, but there is no way—"

"Hotch, ou said you'd hear me out," Morgan said. Hotch shut his mouth, and Morgan continued. "For one thing, I wouldn't call what you did 'assault' or 'battery.' Legally, maybe it fits the definition, but practically, my mama swings harder than you do." He gave a little half-smile. "Well, maybe not, but Mama's not a big woman. Anyway, that wasn't really where I was going with that. What I'm trying to say is, you did most of the damage to my pride, not my hide. And to me, my pride's not worth hurting our friends over. If you resign, Reid will be absolutely devastated. He already lost Gideon; do you remember the mess that was? And Emily? I thought he was never going to forgive JJ for that. If he lost you too, especially without good reason, I don't think even Garcia and I would be able to clean up the mess. And that doesn't even take into account how the others would feel. Rossi, JJ, Emily, Garcia, and yeah, even me. Because you can be a bastard sometimes, but you're also my friend, man." Morgan swallowed and met the other man's stunned brown eyes. "And I would hate for one mistake, even a really damn big one, to kill that."

Hotch's mouth was hanging open, ever so slightly. "Morgan, I—"

"That being said," Morgan continued, wanting to get everything off his chest, "if you ever pull something like that again, that's it. I will beat your ass into the ground, no lie. This is the only time you'll get a second chance, Hotch." Morgan swallowed. Silence hung over them. "Alright. I'm done."

The silence continued. Finally, Hotch cleared his throat. "If I ever do something that stupid again, I'd say you have a moral obligation to punch me out. But I won't. You asked me if I respect you so little, but Morgan, there was a reason that I asked you to step up as Acting Unit Chief, and it was because I respect you. I am sorry that my actions tonight conveyed otherwise." His eyes were sincere, and Derek felt something hard and angry loosen in his chest. "That said, are you absolutely sure? You're sure you don't want me to resign, or at the very least, to step down as unit chief? Because if you don't feel you can trust me, Morgan, we shouldn't be in the field as a team."

"Oh, I know I can trust you, Hotch," Morgan said, and to his own surprise, he did; no reservations. "Because you are a good man, despite your mistakes. You apologized; you came to make it right. And not just with talk; you were prepared to follow through. I'd bet you already have your resignation typed and ready to hand in, don't you?" Hotch nodded, and Morgan smirked. "Better shred that sucker. If you weren't trustworthy, you'd still be at home, pretending that nothing was wrong, figuring that loyalty or embarrassment or fear would keep me quiet." _And hell, you might have been right_, Morgan thought. He held out his hand for his boss to shake, and Hotch took it. Their handshake was unusually solemn.

"Thank you, Derek," his boss said softly.

"Yeah. Now go home, Aaron," he replied. "Morning's coming all too soon."

The two men nodded at each other, and Morgan ushered his boss from his house. Then he returned to his living room, turned off the lamp, and called his dog, who woke with a snort and followed him into his bedroom. Derek peeled off his shirt and sweater and crawled into bed. After a moment, Clooney bounded up there next to him. He reached over and scratched the dog's floppy ears.

"Mama always did know best, Clooney," he murmured to his pet. He yawned. "C'mon. Let's go to sleep already."

And in five minutes, both man and dog were snoring away.

)—oo00OO00oo—(

"When you forgive, you in no way change the past—but you sure do change the future."- Bernard Meltzer


End file.
